


An Impossible Boy

by nerigby96



Category: Martin and Lewis
Genre: 1940s, Age Difference, Antisemitism, Blood and Injury, Childishness, Developing Friendships, Fluffy Ending, Friendship, Gen, Holding Hands, Hugs, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Relationship, Protectiveness, Slurs, Understanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:14:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26148517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerigby96/pseuds/nerigby96
Summary: ...what were the odds his little friend was perched at the bar, sipping Shirley Temples and waiting for Sinatra?
Relationships: Dean Martin & Jerry Lewis - Relationship, Jerry Lewis/Dean Martin
Comments: 18
Kudos: 32





	1. Small World

Finished at last. The lights were too bright. Too hot. He clenched his fist so hard he has to squint now at his sweaty palm. Just to make sure the little white cross didn’t get itself embedded in his skin. But no. It’s stuck to his hand but still there. Glowing a little. Or maybe it’s the light. He heaves a sigh and almost falls against the wall. Enough. It’s late. Be cold out, Dean hopes. A nice breeze at least. Not stuffy like these boxes backstage. Corridors and too-small rooms. One night down, and tomorrow will be better, but for now he needs some air. So he half-staggers, hidden by the shadows, to his dressing room. Leaves the door open. Just needs to pack up what little shit he has and go. Back to Lou’s room and hoping Lou’s not there. Takes twenty minutes, but maybe he’ll go slow or another way. However long he needs to kill the ache between his eyes.

He takes a breath.

It wasn’t all bad. He doesn’t mind so much the faceless shapes, shadowed and warped. Suggestions of waiters. Tiny orange furnaces growing, dying in the smoke. Crystal glasses turned to catch the light. And of course, the orchestra behind him helps. And tonight… Well, it was different tonight. Dean knows better. He thinks he knows better. But something happened when he looked into the dark. He almost lost himself. Wanted to shield his eyes and peer into the shadows, just to check, just to be sure. Big break be damned. He knew half the crowd – maybe more – hated him on sight. They’d come to see a Dago, sure, but the wrong one waltzed out. Who could blame them? If Dean had paid for Sinatra, he’d be pissed too.

Still. He almost looked.

Instead, he clutched the little cross and sang. And the words came easy and his chest felt looser and he told himself he couldn’t possibly see through the dark and the smoke, and even if he could, what were the odds his little friend was perched at the bar, sipping Shirley Temples and waiting for Sinatra? Very slim, those were the odds. Small world, but not that small. So he sang. Played with the melody a little, some words. Felt brave enough or stupid enough to do it. Didn’t care who cared. And then it was done, and the words dried up and his chest went tight, and here he is, packed up and ready to go, and wondering why he felt that way all of a sudden.

And then, behind him, clattering footsteps.

He turns. Knows what he’ll see. Never mind he knew already no matter how many times he told himself it wasn’t possible. _He_ isn’t possible. An impossible boy. Impossible, too, that his lungs are filling easier than they have been all night. Dean barely registers the fizzing bundle of limbs that throws itself through the door and on to his neck. Just raises his arms and hugs. Mock-grimaces and sticks out his tongue. Cheek wet from kissing. “Get offa me, will ya?” But keeps hold even as the kid leans back. Christ, but he’s _glowing_. All eyes and teeth and hands laced at the small of his back. But when’d he get his arms inside Dean’s jacket? Hardly matters, when the kid’s about ready to explode.

“Dean, you did so _good_.”

“When’d you get here?”

“Been here the whole time! I came to see Sinatra.” He flushes a little. Silly thing, really. Nothing to be embarrassed about. Hell, _Dean_ woulda come to see Sinatra if he hadn’t been replacing him. But the kid’s already moved on: “I had no idea it’d be you. Oh boy, Dean, you were terrific.” And he comes back for more kisses, which Dean dodges now, laughing, and lets him go at last. “How’d it happen, Dean, huh? How’d you get the job?”

“You think I know how this works? I just do what I’m told.” He ruffles the kid’s pompadour. Already it’s skewed on account of the overzealous tackle. Redundant, that adjective. Everything about the kid is overzealous. Dean smiles but looks away from the kid’s face. Suddenly it’s filled with adjectives too big for Dean to think about. He turns to the table for one last check, fishes out his handkerchief to wipe the spit from his cheek and says, “Sorry you didn’t get Sinatra.”

“Oh, that’s all right. You sing better than Sinatra.”

Dean feels his back straighten. He turns to him. Incredulous. Eyebrows raised. Fights a losing battle with the corners of his mouth. “What?”

The kid is scarlet.

“What did you say?”

“Oh – oh!” He shuffles his feet. Coughs. Looks briefly like he might cry or laugh uncontrollably. “No, I mean…” And then his face changes. He looks… older. Serious. Seems to consider a spot on the floor and then looks at Dean. Says in a voice lower and deeper than Dean knew he was capable of: “No, that’s what I mean.”

Dean shakes his head. Wants the kid back the way he was a moment ago so tugs gently at his earlobes. Teases that bashful little grin. “Sure you got the right head back from the cleaner’s?”

He giggles and shrugs theatrically. Then he tucks himself against Dean’s side. “I mean it, Dean. You were wonderful.”

And Dean means to speak but nothing comes. So he rubs the kid’s back. Just gently, firmly up and down between his shoulder blades and feels the grin against his neck. Waits for a wet kiss or maybe a lick, if he’s feeling silly enough tonight, but nothing comes. Nothing save warm puffs of air on his skin, and a gentle pulling at his shirt: the kid’s fist, weak and holding.


	2. Anxious Energy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: antisemitism, homophobic language, violence, blood

A week passes. The shows get easier, and Dean sings well. He has perspective enough to see that. The little cross stays clutched, then cradled in a loosened fist. He relaxes. It’s easy. He’s good. Better than good. _Terrific_ comes the kid’s firm assessment. Now he walks out. Spine straight. Shoulders back. He never stutters or stumbles. Gets the titles and composers right. Maybe noodles with the words but no one cares. No one gets their feelings hurt. Not once they get over themselves and stop fidgeting, waiting for the other Italian. In fact, some people catch his lines. They laugh. Polite soft chuckles but still. They _laugh_.

It’s different from the first night. No impossible certainty of a friend in the dark. No urge to peer into the shadows of the bar, just to check. He knows. A young waitress pokes her head round the dressing room door but otherwise no comfort backstage. It shouldn’t matter. And mostly it doesn’t. Mostly he gets on with it, heaves sighs of relief after every show, wanders back through cool night air, crashes ’til midmorning and does it all again. So no. It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t hold his breath for those clattering footsteps. Shouldn’t go over it again, wish he bought the kid a malted if only to stop him talking. _Better than Sinatra. Needs his ears checked._

But it does matter. Dean figures that’s just how it is now.

Because it’s true he hasn’t felt quite the same onstage. Knowing the kid’s not out there. He’d come back, he promised. Stood on the sidewalk outside the Bryant, latched to Dean’s arm. He swore he’d come. Tried to kiss the corner of his mouth and went giggling away. Flapped his hand goodbye and Dean flapped back. But he’s a busy boy, as he once said, grinning proudly, high on three milkshakes and a handful of Dean’s fries shovelled down his throat, so no wonder he can’t always make it.

“But I’ll come back,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it, kid.” Knowing the kid _would_ worry. Knowing he’d want to be there every night. Not knowing what that meant, exactly. Knowing he ought to say _I’ll come see you_ , too. Even if he doesn’t mean it. Even if he’d want to mean it and never follow through.

So he tweaked his nose and watched him disappear down 49th. Almost went with him. _Dangerous for a lady so late at night, Dean._ He rolled his eyes. Knew somehow if he kept looking the kid would turn and see and maybe want to come back again. Kept looking anyway. And thought about his chest, looser with the kid watching in the dark. He wondered if Jerry felt looser, if some of that anxious energy seeped out with Dean’s eyes on him. Or if maybe he’d soothed a little of it with his hand between his shoulder blades, and now each step drove it firmly into his chest.

The kid turned back. One hundred yards from him. They looked at each other. Dean considered – for a second or twelve – getting him back. Lou wasn’t in. There’s a pull-out in the room. The kid could crash. He _wanted_ to crash. Even at this distance, Dean could see that in his eyes. He wouldn’t have to call. Just jerk his head, and the kid would come. He doesn’t know what that means, either. So much of this he doesn’t know. Instead, he flapped his hand again and pulled a sorry face. He saw the little smile, and then the kid was walking away.

Dean went inside before he could see another of those lonely glances back. Couldn’t risk it.

So. A week has passed, and tonight Dean does have a pal with him; Sonny came to see the show, and now sits chatting at the bar. No _Terrific_ from him. No _Better than Sinatra_. For the best, Dean thinks. Maybe he’ll tell Sonny about that later. For now, though, they drink and smoke and Sonny casts appreciative glances around the club.

“How’s the talent?” he asks, eyeing at a girl at a nearby table.

Dean snorts. “You saw the show – you tell me.”

Sonny shakes his head. “You’re not my type.”

“And I thank God every day.”

“You’d be lucky to have me.”

“Madonna, this is _luck_?

“I’ll have you know, I am a _catch_.”

“I’d catch somethin', that’s for sure.”

So it goes. Sonny shakes his head in disgusted wonder when Dean ignores a slim brunette. Not quite ignores. Too strong a word. Barely notices her, that’s all. He’s tired now. Wants to finish his drink and go to bed. Lets Sonny talk and talk and tell him he’s wasting the night – but kiddingly, and if he tails a shimmering broad he always comes back to go on drinking with him. Acts mighty offended if Dean even thinks about suggesting he struck out yet again. Apparently one raised eyebrow as Sonny slumps dejected on to his stool is tantamount to bullying.

“Didn’t say a word.” It’s true, but not enough.

And just as Dean’s thinking of heading out, a fella sidles up. Orders a scotch. It’s gone in one swig and while the next is being poured he clocks Dean. His eyes go down and up. Tighten. The corner of his mouth lifts. _Never met this guy, already he hates me. Che palle._

“Caught your show,” he says. “I’m on after you.”

“Ah,” says Dean. What else is there to say? Sonny's laugh is swallowed in his glass.

“Good stuff,” the fella says. Downs his second tumbler. Smacks his lips. A flash of yellowing teeth. Those eyes, red-rimmed, down and up again. _Say it_ , Dean thinks. _Christ, whatever it is._ He dreams of his bed.

“Makin’ friends, Dino?” Sonny mutters. Dean kicks him and crushes his cigarette in an ashtray.

“Excuse me,” he says. His only pleasantry wasted on some drunk who won’t spit out whatever he’s been chewing on. He gets up, pats Sonny’s shoulder – why? To get him to come, too? To say goodnight? Whatever the reason, he can’t figure it out, because this stranger puts his hand on Dean’s arm.

It’s his turn now; he looks down, then up, slow as anything.

“Can I help you?”

He grins. That tombstone grin. Dean can picture teeth scattered on the floor and wants to be the one who put them there. Behind him, Sonny’s up. Waiting. He knows something Dean doesn’t because here he is, already with a hand on his back.

“Just wondered where your other friend is tonight.”

Dean hardens. Tightens. Every inch him. The little cross is safely tucked away in his pocket. Good thing, too. Maybe it would stop him. And Dean doesn’t want anything stopping him.

“My _other_ friend?”

“Dino.” Sonny’s voice. Edged with warning.

“You know,” he says. “From backstage the other night." The smile spreads; his lips part wetly. "That Jew fairy—”

Dean doesn’t know what happens next. When it all comes clear, someone’s holding him back ( _Not tight enough_ ), cries are ringing out, and the fucker’s on the floor, clutching his face, blood spurting between his fingers.

“My _teef_!” he cries through the din. “My fuckin _teef_ , you fuck—”

The rest of that word stolen from him. Crushed at the source. Dean’s foot finding a home in this man’s stomach. He _oof_ s, almost comical, and clutches his middle, twitching on the floor. Wrecked. It’s not enough. This man’s red. The whole world the colour that seeps between his lips. From the wreckage of his shit-stained mouth. But still Dean sees himself lunging down, lifting this man by the front of his jacket and – then what? Something. Something worse. Something more. _Fairy_ , he thinks. Almost laughs. _Fairy._ Make this fucker fly.

But whoever’s holding Dean is dragging him, pulling him, begging him – _Sonny, of course it’s Sonny_ – away from this. People crowd round the mewling lump, and maybe that’s enough for Dean. That noise enough to make up for everything. He’s panting. Vision bulging. Staggers with Sonny for support and fishes out the little cross. Clutches it. Sees blood on his knuckles and can’t remember how it got there. Fascinated with this even as he’s half-pulled into the bathroom. Hears Sonny’s voice, no trace of the booze he’s steadily imbibed all night, bark at someone to get out.

Then, the mirror. A sink. Water running as Dean stares at his drawn face.

“Christ, Dino.”

The world comes back to him. One huge breath. And then, rinsing his hands, he says, “I know.”


	3. Broken Skin

They’re silent. Dean takes this time to focus on his knuckles. Right now he can’t look anywhere else. They’re split and bloody, but it’s mostly not his blood, and that’s all right. Even better, he’s stopped bleeding, and a rinse under the faucet followed by a dabbing of his handkerchief is all he needs. They throb and twinge a little. But they’re clean. Already they’re swollen and scarred and it’s too late to do anything about that now. He can only make them worse, but he’s been lucky tonight. Not supposed to fight without gloves. Not out of the ring. At least if he’s without gloves and a ring, not out of the apartment. Not without bets. A makeshift ring. He almost laughs. Shoulda been onstage. Ringside seats filled with bloodthirsty patrons. Not politely chuckling figures in the dark.

“Dino.”

How long has he been here?

“Dino, what the fuck, man?”

He closes his eyes. Wants out of here. Wants a smoke and a drink and a bed. Not necessarily that order, but it’s a start. The pieces all there. His forehead meets the mirror. He wants ice for his right hand. Wants someone to sit with him and hold the ice just so. To tut and sigh and tell him how stupid he was. Push the hair from his brow. He curses softly. Shoves away the feel of gentle fingertips on broken skin.

“Fuckin’ look at me at least.”

That he can do. Can’t find words right now. Can’t remember if he even knows how to speak. If he _ever_ knew. But he can look, that’s just fine. And no, it’s not fine that Sonny is bone white with eyes so wide they about swallow his head, but he’s here at least, and watching Dean so closely it’s as if he’s never really seen him. _C’mon, Sonny_ , he wants to say. _We’ve boxed before, had worse than this. Whadaya want? Close your mouth_ , he wants to say. _You’ll catch flies._

“Wanna explain that?”

Dean scoffs. Drags words from somewhere. Colder, harsher than he means: “Don’t tell me he didn’t deserve it.”

“Wasn’t gonna.” And he laughs. Or almost. A strangled noise from a twisted mouth. Then he’s shaking his head, putting it in his hands. “ _Jesus_.” He looks up again. Exhausted. “Dino. I gotta say somethin’ now. And maybe you won’t like it, but I gotta say it.”

Dean bridles. Doesn’t have words for this. Wouldn’t trust them if he did.

“Dino, you…” He rubs his face. Tries again: “Dino, I know you don’t listen to what people say, or – or you don’t, I don’t know, _pay attention_ when people talk. And I don’t think it’s because you don’t care, but sometimes… _Fuck_ , sometimes it’s important, and if you don’t get it now you never will, all right?”

He frowns. Definitely doesn’t have words for this. Frankly has no idea where Sonny’s headed. Still, he starts: “Aw, Sonny, I don’t have time for—”

“Shut up, Dino.” Not mad. Not loud. Tired. _Sad_ , Dean thinks. A little sad. “You gotta shut up. Just for one minute. Then you can tell me to fuck off and I’ll go and we’ll forget about it. _Va bene_?”

“Hm.” Every inch of him screaming to get outside. Walls too close, throat too dry, chest too tight. But he nods. “ _Dillo e basta_.”

“Okay.” Sonny cups his hands over his nose and mouth. Shuts his eyes. Breathes heavy into that hollow, and then looks up. Uncovers his face. Clasps his hands as if in prayer. “I know you care about that kid. But you can’t do this every time someone says something like _that_ about him. I hate to break it to you, Dino, but they’re not gonna stop. Because – well, because he’s not giving them a reason to.”

Dean’s shaking his head. “Sonny, don’t—”

“I have to.” Breathing heavy like he’s running out. “Don’t tell me you don’t hear what I hear.”

 _Stop talking._ Dean rubs his mouth. Chest still tight, and colder now. He has to look away. Around the room. Searching for the way out.

“Dino, are you listening?”

 _No._ “Yeah, I’m listening.”

“That kid, he’s not – helping himself. Do you know what I mean?”

Dean wonders vaguely if he even _likes_ Sonny. He knows for sure the kid does, so he says, “Does it matter?”

Sonny blinks. “What?”

“You heard me. Does it matter?”

“Dino, I—”

“It doesn’t,” Dean says. “He’s a kid. He’s just a kid.”

And Sonny’s face softens. He smiles gently at his friend and says, “Yeah.”

“People shouldn’t say that shit about a kid.”

He laughs. Short and soft. Sad again. “Yeah. You’re right.” And then, after a pause in which he regards Dean with an expression he can’t even begin to understand, he says, “Go.”

“What?”

“He’s at the Glass Hat, ain’t he?”

“Last I heard.”

“Then go. Get outta here. Try not to kill anyone on the way.”

Dean doesn’t know what happened here, but already he’s forgetting it. He’s out of the bathroom and on to the street in record time. After that it’s easy. Just a 10-minute walk down Lexington. And his steps get lighter and his chest gets looser and he feels like whistling as he walks into the club and spots his little friend sucking a pinkish drink through a straw. He’s too far away – can’t possibly hear him come in, especially not over the music – but still he looks up. Of course he does. The odds are slim, but here they are. They see each other through the smoky dark. And the kid’s mouth curls around the straw. He stands up too fast. Legs tangled in the stool. Almost takes himself out, pitching to sprawl on a sticky floor. And Dean’s with him then, somehow. Helps him stand and takes in that incredulous face.

“Dean? What—”

“There’s my pal,” he says. It comes out soft. He’s never heard himself so soft before. And the kid beams, slips arms around his waist and squeezes hard. Dean hugs him back.

“Sorry I’m late.”

He scoffs. “You weren’t gonna come.”

“No. But I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“Ah, who cares? You’re here now.” He leans away. Looking at him. Eyes sparkling. Hands still linked at the small of Dean’s back. The kid bounces in place. “I missed ya, big guy.”

Dean chuckles. “It’s been a week.”

“Felt like _years_.” He swoons, eyes rolling. And then, hands clasped to his breast and lisping, batting his eyelashes: “Did you get my letters?”

“Oh, sure. Once I learn to read I’ll get on to replying.”

He giggles, thoroughly delighted. Then turns back to the bar to suck down more of his drink.

“Hey, kid.”

“Mm?” Smiling around the straw.

“Let’s go somewhere.”

He finishes the Shirley Temple. Lets out a satisfied _ahh_ and smacks his lips. “Sure, Dean. Where?”

“Wherever you want.”

“Ooh, let’s go to the park!” He tugs his arm. “Let’s do that, Deanie.” Leg raised to march.

“This time of night? It’s closed.”

“You said wherever I want.” He pouts. Runs a finger down Dean’s tie.

Dean sighs. “You got me there, kid.”

So they head the way Dean came: back up Lexington, and a little further now to branch off on 59th, headed towards the park. It’s a cool night. Not quite coat weather, so they’re in jackets. Blue for Dean and grey for his friend. This kid who’s fizzing with excitement. Can’t decide whether he wants to walk with Dean or drag him by the elbow. He tries both then loses patience. Sprints ahead. Comes skipping back and declares, “I’m the happiest boy in the world!” He wants to be carried but Dean shakes his head. Shares his cigarettes instead, and that seems good enough. The kid smokes two at once and shoves a third (unlit, but he sells the bit so well Dean almost cries out) in his ear. He chases after him. And _Christ_ he’s fast, but Dean keeps pace. Lets him get ahead. Almost free. Then bursts full-tilt and sweeps him up, screeching laughter, kicking and screaming, and deposits him on the stone wall overlooking Central Park.

“Now – be a good boy.” Panting. Plumes of silver misting the air. “Just sit still, all right?”

The kid chuckles. “Need a break, old man?” Pushes hair from Dean’s brow.

Dean’s still too out of breath to laugh so puts his hands on the wall to lean and rest. They’re covered by overhanging trees. Leaves brown but hanging on. It’s late – or very early. Still dark. Streetlamps up and down but a deeper blackness here, and beyond, too, where the kid wants to go. It’s shut, but maybe this is enough.

And then, from somewhere far away – a place Dean hardly knows – his friend’s voice: “What’d you do?”

Dean can’t look. Doesn’t have to. Knows these gentle fingertips on broken skin.

“Dean, what happened?”

His breath’s as close to being back as possible right now, so Dean smiles gently at him and takes back his hand. “You oughta see the other guy.” He turns, his back to the park now, and leans again. Eyes fixed on the hotel opposite.

“Silly,” the kid says. Voice tiny. “Oughta be grownup, Dean. No fighting.”

“ _Ehi_ , _ehi_.” He turns to him now, jabbing a thumb at his chest. _Big man_ , the kid might say. “I was defending your honour.”

“Huh?” He hooks fingers into Dean’s jacket. Tugs him gently closer. “I wasn’t even there.”

“Hm.”

“Someone say somethin’ about me?” He grins. Needling. But sweetly, if that’s possible. “Little me? I must be famous.”

“Forget about it, all right?” He pats his cheek and steps back a little. Turns his face away.

After a moment, the kid says, “I thought about you yesterday.”

Dean lights a cigarette. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Well, I think about you every day.”

He snorts. Wants to tell him to knock it off. Wants to want that.

“It’s true! Anyhow, I did think about you.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, I was onstage. Doing my act, you know? And this… this fella yells somethin’ out. And that happens sometimes, it’s all right. But I couldn’t think of a thing to say back. And I thought to myself, if Dean was here, he’d know what to say.” He touches his hand again and adds, “He’d know what to do.”

Dean thinks about this. “What’d he say to you?”

The kid laughs. Very low and soft. Sad, too, and sad enough that Dean looks at him now. His head is bowed. The expression Dean isn’t sure he really wants to see is hidden in shadow. “Oh, you know,” he says at last. “Somethin’ bad.”

Dean puffs on his cigarette and thinks. Hardly notices the kid’s fingers stroking his knuckles again. He’s putting two and two together and getting four when it should be five but somehow isn’t. Somehow he knows. The fella at the club said what he said to rile him up. He saw the kid backstage. Saw what he was like. Friendly and excited. And, unrelated – it should be unrelated – some _pazzo_ heckled the kid. Called him a name. And if Dean asks, he knows the kid will tell him what it was, and if it was the same name? Well, then, it should be a coincidence. Shouldn’t be the same fella. Small world but not that small. And what Sonny said was true, though Dean wishes he’d kept it to himself. The kid doesn’t give anyone a reason not to call him names. The fella picking up his teeth on the floor of the Riobamba isn’t the first to insinuate something and he won’t be the last.

But Dean can picture this fella backstage. See him watching, and then by chance catching a show at the Glass Hat. Putting things together and coming back to let the chips fall where they may. Bet his teeth and lost but maybe got the answer he wanted anyway.

“Dean?”

He pitches the cigarette. Not quite knowing what he’s doing, but knowing it’s late (or very early) and dark and a little colder now, and he’s with a kid who likes him, who thinks about him every day and wants to be held, he turns to his friend and steps between his legs, wraps arms around his waist and gets as close as he can, toes of his black shoes socking against the wall, and rests his forehead on a bony shoulder. There’s a hollow there: his neck. He rubs his head against it. He feels the thin chest stutter. Then a hand on his back and fingers in his hair.

Jerry whispers something but Dean doesn’t hear it.

 _He’s a kid_ , he thinks. _He’s just a kid._ And maybe Sonny’s right and maybe he’s not but Dean meant it when he said it doesn’t matter. Maybe they’ll have to deal with it one day but not this day. Not now. He doesn’t know how to tell the kid that it’s okay so he holds him tighter and hopes that’s enough. And in the quiet he hears the kid say _Did you hurt him bad?_ and Dean says _Yes_ and he says _Good_ , crying softly now, and Dean lets go to wipe away the tears.

The kid offers a watery smile. “Dean?”

“What?” Holding the nape of his neck.

“Are you gonna make me walk all the way home alone again tonight?”

He laughs. Throws back his head and _laughs_. “It wasn’t _all_ the way, Jer. Just half.”

“Still.” He pouts. “Can I stay with you tonight?”

“Surely.” And he starts to walk away, leaving the kid to scramble after him. “Just as long as you promise to behave yourself.”

“I always behave myself.”

Dean looks at him.

He grins. Nibbles his index finger. And then, softly, “I promise.”

And Dean’s walking again. Purposeful. He’s tired now. Wants his bed. Thinks he’ll have energy enough to get the pull-out sorted for the kid but after that? Sleep. He needs it badly. He lights another cigarette and as the cool hard weight of the lighter slips from his hand a warmer, softer weight settles in its place. Dean stops. Staring at the ground. The kid’s feet stop beside him. Slender fingers flex against the back of Dean’s hand.

Dean thinks this kid must be the bravest person he ever met. He wonders if he ever thinks before he acts. If he worries about anything. No, Dean knows him better than that. If anything he thinks _too_ much, worries _too_ much, and it all circles back and he loses control of it anyway. Says and does the first thing that pops into his head and hopes for the best. Hopes nobody gets mad and hits him. But more than that, Dean wonders when it was that he last held hands with someone who wasn’t his wife. He thinks he must have been very small. Going somewhere with Bill. He almost smiles. His older brother holding his hand. And this boy with him now in the middle of the night. An only child who thinks about him every day.

“What is this?” he asks. “What’s with the holding?”

“So I don’t get lost,” he says. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.


End file.
